


Rising from the Chimney

by teaandjumpers



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Adventure, Crossover, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-26
Updated: 2012-08-25
Packaged: 2017-11-06 01:06:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/413021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaandjumpers/pseuds/teaandjumpers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the new groundskeeper shows up at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Sherlock Holmes, the school's Potion master, finds it hard to resist the man's pull. The two find their match in the other, but as their romance burgeons, so does a plot to trow the wizarding world into chaos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thank you to lareginaphantom for beta!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: This is an abandoned WIP; some of the cast and crew's comments about Johnlock turned me off of this fandom, which is really disappointing considering how much I love(d)? this show. I hate leaving things unfinished, so this is doubly upsetting for me. That said, if you still wish to read this, go right ahead, but do know that I have no immediate plans for picking this up again.

The new groundskeeper is a lot younger than the last. Sherlock is collecting asphodel on the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest when Mycroft shows the man to his hut. Sherlock ducks behind some shrubs to get a closer look. The man is slightly below average height, with mousy brown hair, newly cut, and ears that point outwards. He is wearing a brown leather jacket that looks fairly worn and a pair of climbing boots in a similar condition. He must have been stationed with the Giants, thinks Sherlock.

After the last war, a handful of wizards were sent to the mountains to rebuild relations with the giants. These wizards were often jacks of all trades, good at defense, good at healing, and fairly independent people--they had to be, living under those circumstances. As he moved closer to the hut, he wondered what this man's strengths were.

"You're welcome to stay in the castle if you prefer," says Mycroft. "Traditionally, the groundskeeper stays in the hut, but these are different times. We're on much better terms with the inhabitants of the forest and we don't need someone on the grounds at all hours."

The man takes his time considering it. He straightens his posture and holds his chin up as he surveys the hut and the surrounding area. His eyes skirt over where Sherlock is crouched, but he doesn't seem to spot Sherlock. He breathes deeply through his nose and says, "I think this will be lovely, Headmaster Holmes."

His voice has an odd quality to it. Sherlock can't quite put his finger on it, but he thinks it has something to do with the way the man's voice sounds hard and soft at the same time.

Mycroft places a hand on the man's shoulder. "In that case, it's a pleasure to have you with us, John."

John. What a disappointingly ordinary name. Sherlock wagered his last name was equally abysmal. Something like Jones or Williams. It was just his luck. Finally, they had an opening for someone new, someone potentially interesting, and Mycroft went ahead and hired a short, dull-named, John.

Mycroft gives John a ring of keys. John takes them and measures the weight of each one in the palm of his hand. The action is very tactile, not surprising considering that John would be doing most of his work with his hands. Even from a distance, Sherlock can tell that they were very nice hands, competent and considerate given the careful manner in which he holds the keys, his grip firm and molding around the key ring like butter.

Sherlock wonders if he should come out from behind the shrub and reveal himself when Mycroft calls out to him. "You should come and introduce yourself to the new groundskeeper, Sherlock."

John whips his head in the direction that Mycroft directs his voice, and Sherlock curses Mycroft for calling him out like that. He had the ability to make him look foolish more than anyone else he knew. Sherlock has no choice but to come out, feeling a little like a child caught spying on grownups.

"I was picking some asphodel," he says, bringing himself up to his full height.

He holds out a hand to John and introduces himself. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock is our Potions Master," says Mycroft. "And my brother."

John smiles up at him and takes his hand. 

"John Watson," he says. His grip is warm and strong, but not suffocating. Sherlock doesn't feel the impulse to let go as quickly as he does with other people. This surprises him and he lets go of John's hand as if he's been scolded.

"Pleasure," says Sherlock and stalks off to the castle as briskly as he can.

 

Sherlock barely sees the new groundskeeper in the following weeks. When term starts, Mycroft introduces John to the students and he stands, giving them a salute. John typically sits on the side opposite of Sherlock, next to Stamford, the Herbology professor. Sherlock can hear the man's light-hearted giggle from across the table and can't think of a single thing Stamford could say to merit that level of unfettered enthusiasm.

"Ridiculous," says Sherlock when John lets out another train of giggles.

Lestrade reaches over his plate and grabs a dinner roll. "Oh, get off it Holmes," he says. "He's not a bad sort."

He tears his roll in half and sops up the remains of the beef stew that was served for dinner. "A damn good quidditch player, in fact. It'll be nice to have someone closer to my age to play against."

"It seems the entire school is taken by our new groundskeeper," says Sherlock. The students had immediately fallen in love with one John Watson, particularly the female population. There was always a gaggle of girls in Sherlock's Potions classes snickering and gossiping over some new tidbit about the newest of the Hogwart's staff. It was never anything interesting. Just facts like did you know he's left handed or I heard he could kill a man without a wand or how one time when he was gardening by his hut, he had his shirt off and he had this, huge nasty looking scar on his shoulder--it was so manly. Sherlock had to admit, that last bit of information was somewhat intriguing, but he was certain the girls were making a bigger thing of it than it was. 

Even Professor Hudson, the Transfiguration professor, had fallen for the man's indiscernible charms. She had given her latest batch of pumpkin pasties to John, not bothering to offer Sherlock any like she usually did.

The only people who weren't bewitched by the seemingly plain groundskeeper were Sherlock and the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Irene Adler. 

"Some people seem more taken than others," says Irene from beside him. 

Sherlock snaps his head to the side. "What?" he asks sharply. "Who?"

She looks at him expectantly, her eyes wide and unblinking. 

"Who?" he asks again. "Me?"

"You do talk about him an awful lot," says Lestrade. His opinion is unsolicited, as always, and Sherlock ignores him in favor of setting Irene straight.

"I am not taken by him," he says. "He's dull. I am simply curious as to how he's gotten the entire school to think otherwise."

Irene nods at him, unconvinced, and turns her attention to Professor Yao.

"Like I said," says Lestrade, "he's a decent bloke." He reaches over Sherlock's plate for another roll, the sleeve of his robe catching in Sherlock's stew and taking Sherlock's appetite away with it. 

"He asked about you the other day, you know," Lestrade continues.

"What?" asks Sherlock. Trust Lestrade to always keep the pertinent information at bay. "When? What did he say?"

Lestrade gives Sherlock a smug look and says, "He asked if you always hung around shrubs and spied on people."

Sherlock has to force his words through clenched teeth. "And what, pray tell, did you say?"

"I told him that you typically did your spying face to face and that he should expect a more invasive inquiry the next time you crossed paths."

 

He's not even that good looking, thinks Sherlock as he violently hacks at a piece of mandrake root. He is in the Potions classroom, in his element, his sleeves rolled up and cauldron purposefully boiling beside him. Sherlock has yet to find a noise as soothing as that of a boiling cauldron. He would fall asleep to the sound of his father's cauldron when he was a young boy and after his father died and he had trouble sleeping his mother would set one up next to his bed, letting the water simmer through the night. 

Unfortunately, today the running cauldron fails to mollify and all Sherlock can think of is John. John and his easy smile. John and his light tenor. John and his cherry wood wand. Sherlock really wanted to hold that wand. He knew it was taboo, he barely knew the man, but he felt that he would gain some much needed insight on the other wizard if he just got to hold his wand. He had seen it in passing as he walked past John's hut. Seen the wizard giving it a diligent wave as he worked about the grounds. Its glossy red-brown wood shone in the sun and Sherlock had to try very hard not to walk up to the other man and snatch the thing straight out of his hand. That would not be good.

"It makes no sense," he says aloud. 

“What doesn’t?” asks a voice from the entrance to the classroom. 

It’s John. Of course it’s John. Of course he would show up when Sherlock was talking to himself, his hair no doubt frizzing.

John is wearing his brown leather jacket again and jeans. He is one of the few of Hogwarts’ staff that doesn’t wear a robe, Lestrade and the school’s nurse, Madame Hooper, being the other two. Sherlock likes a good, long robe. He likes the feel of it sweeping about him, moving the air and giving even the must mundane tasks a sense of urgency. But he isn’t extravagant in the cuts and colors of his robes, not like Irene and Mycroft are. 

John has a relaxed air about him, but it seems put on, as if John has had to practice coming off this way. The constant bags under John’s eyes tell another story.

Sherlock wonders if he could create some potion to get rid of them. He probably could if he cared enough, but, even more, he wonders what it would be like to run the pad of his thumb across that skin. What it would be like to stand close enough for John to let him. He could just do it. It is late and the potions classroom is out of the way. He could just obliviate John and get all the information he wants--no--needs that way. But that would be wrong.

“I picked some valerian roots for you,” says John holding out a bushel of the plant. He says it like they are two regular people engaging in a normal conversation. Sherlock doesn’t know where the man gets the audacity. 

“Mike said you were making some sleeping draught and I thought I’d go ahead and pick some for you,” says John “Seeing as how they grow near the hut.”

Sherlock says nothing. He lets his gaze drift from John’s face to the freshly picked plants and then back to John. He is trying very hard to piece together what is happening. Why was this man standing in his classroom with his arm outstretched and roots held loosely in his palm? 

“Sorry,” says John, “but am I bothering you?” His voice sounds a little insulted. The hint of aggression underlying John’s tone makes Sherlock’s skin prickle in a not entirely unsatisfactory way.

“May I borrow your wand?” asks Sherlock. 

“My wand,” repeats John.

“Yes. Wand.”

“That’s not some sort of euphemism, is it?” asks John.

“What?” asks Sherlock. “No.”

John mutters something that sounds like “too bad,” but Sherlock guesses it is more likely “you’re mad.” In either case, John amiably hands his wand over.

John’s wand is smooth to the touch and almost decadently glossy. It’s contrary to John himself who seems to favor comfort and function over the decorous. 

“Do you usually go about without your wand then?”

“Hmm. No. I just wanted to see your wand,” says Sherlock. “You can tell a lot about a wizard from their wand.”

“Ah,” says John. “Lestrade said you might do something like this.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes at that, but John just smiles his infuriatingly knowing smile.

“Go on then,” says John, crossing his arms. “Tell me about myself.”

Sherlock clears his throat and straightens his back. “Cherry wood has a strong connection with the earth-- a trait exemplified by your work as groundskeeper. It also has a grounding energy. The user of a cherry wand is typically very solid and unshakable. Cherry wood is also a conduit for medicinal and love magic. In short, you are a very grounded man with a strong capacity for love and healing.”

“Wow,” says John. “Did you memorize The Book of Wandlore?”

Sherlock feels his face heat. “It’s pertinent information. In a duel you have seconds to measure up your opponent, and knowing a little about the magical properties of certain wands can tell you a lot about your their weaknesses.”

“Alright, alright,” says John, raising his hands up in surrender. “I was only joking. That’s impressive. Quite impressive, actually.”

Sherlock clears his throat again. “Well, yes. Thank you.” He hands John his wand back, avoiding the other man’s eyes as he does so.

“What about yours,” asks John. “What does your wand say about you?”

Sherlock pulls out his own wand from his robe sleeve and holds it out for John to inspect. 

“You tell me,” he says.

John doesn’t take Sherlock’s wand, but he does lean in close to get a good look at it. John smells of sandalwood and apples. The scent is common enough. Madame Hooper would dab some sandalwood oil on her neck to make her seem more exotic, but on John the scent takes on a different life. Sherlock has to remind himself not to inhale too deeply. He doesn’t want to scare the man off.

“Ash,” says John.

“Yes,” says Sherlock, waving his hand for John to continue. 

“Well, since I don’t know anything about wandlore, I’m going to have to work backwards here.”

He considers Sherlock’s wand, running a slow swipe of his tongue across his upper lip as he does so. Sherlock tracks the movement intently.

“I would say that it helps clear your mind and helps you focus. Maybe even foster your inquisitiveness.”

Sherlock is pleasantly surprised and he lets John see it. “Good,” he says. “Very good. What else?”

“I think it also diverts some of that excess brain energy to your hair,” says John, a friendly smirk slipping onto his mouth.

“It also protects from unwelcome change,” says Sherlock.

“And what about welcome change?” asks John.

“No such thing,” says Sherlock.

Sherlock can’t fathom why, but John smiles when he says this. Sherlock clears his throat for the umpteenth time. He feels like he is slowly swimming out of his depth. No one ever brought Sherlock ingredients and then complimented him and made fun of his hair.

“Thank you for the Valerian Root,” he says, feeling like he needs to fill the room with something other than John’s smile. “That was good of you.”

“You’re welcome,” says John.

Sherlock thinks that’s John’s cue to leave, but John just stands there and stares back. He is about to ask John to leave; he needs time to process everything, to process John, when John asks him if he’s free for a game of quidditch on Saturday with Lestrade and some of the other staff. 

“I don’t play quidditch,” says Sherlock. He doesn’t like to fly. Ever. It’s completely unnecessary when you can just apparate instead. The inability to apparate at Hogwarts was one of the school’s few drawbacks and Sherlock had been working to find a way around the anti-apparation jinx since the day he arrived.

“Well, then you can come and watch.”

He stands there expectantly, head tilted to one side and a slight smile gracing his lips. He doesn’t back down from Sherlock’s gaze, which is new. Most people would look away and focus on a point beyond Sherlock’s head or blink excessively. Not John. He meets Sherlock’s gaze head on, and it’s Sherlock who had to look away from those absurdly deep blue eyes.

“Very well,” says Sherlock, clearing his throat. “Time permitting, yes. I’ll come.”

John’s smile grows even wider and he says, “Great.” He heads for the entrance, turning back just as he reaches it. He tosses the bushel of Valerian root to him. “See you then.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is the new groundskeeper at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Sherlock is the potions master. The two meet and sparks fly.
> 
> _“You came,” says John. He has his broom perched over his shoulder and a relaxed air about him. He looks like the slew of Quidditch players that made Sherlock’s life a living hell when he was a student, except Sherlock doesn’t want to run away from John. Quite the opposite actually._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to [lareginaphantom](http://lareginaphantom.livejournal.com/) for Beta, Brit-pick, and Harry Potter-pick!

When Sherlock gets to the Quidditch pitch, Lestrade and John are already high up in the air. Sebastian Wilkes, the Arithmancy professor, and Victor Trevor, the Astronomy professor, are up there too. The two have teamed up, Victor charging at Lestrade and Sebastian attempting to block John as Lestrade tosses the Quaffle towards him. John is smaller than Sebastian, and it works in his favour as he feints left and then rockets over Sebastian to get the ball. He holds the Quaffle to his chest and races towards the highest hoop, shooting the ball through the hoop with one easy swoop. Sherlock’s chest blooms with pride and he chides himself for feeling such a pedestrian emotion for someone else.

John hasn’t noticed him yet, which is just as well, because Sherlock welcomes this chance to watch the other man unobserved. But luck isn’t on his side today, because Irene is there, her back resting against the base of the Slytherin stand. No doubt Irene would have something to say about Sherlock being here. Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek and makes his way towards her. 

It is a Hogsmeade weekend and Sherlock is grateful, otherwise the stands would be filled with gossiping students and the sky would be crowded with Quidditch players running drills. The wind picks up and Sherlock wraps his robe tightly around him. His body has always run colder than most people’s. Sherlock thinks it’s because he always insisted on wearing long, heavy robes, even when he was a young Ravenclaw exploring the grounds on those early days of summer before school let out. His body had grown used to layers of heavy cloth, even on the warmest days.

“It’s been a long time since something’s caught your eye,” is the first thing Irene says to him. She is wearing a dark red robe with a high collar. Her lips are painted in a colour to match her robe and her hair is pulled back in a severe bun. He ignores her remark and settles down next to her, stretching his legs out in front of him.

John is wearing his school Quidditch uniform, the name Watson standing out in bold letters against the bright yellow. That was interesting, but not entirely surprising. John didn’t seem like the type that engaged in the bravado or buffoonery that was standard with the Gryffindors. John seemed like the type who thought before he acted, which was much more than Sherlock could say about some of the Gryffindors he knew. Sherlock made a mental note to ask Mycroft when John had studied at Hogwarts. He couldn’t be more than six years older than Sherlock, which would mean he was at Hogwarts around the same time as Sherlock and Mycroft. 

“That’s the second Hufflepuff your brother has hired,” says Irene. 

There was only one other Hufflepuff currently employed at Hogwarts and that was the school’s caretaker and Mycroft’s personal enforcer, Anthea. The woman managed the school with an iron fist and when her heels were heard clacking through the hallways, the students scuttled away like cockroaches do from light.

“They’re so unnerving. Always smiling, acting like they know everything.”

“No luck with Anthea, then?” asks Sherlock. Irene had been chasing the caretaker for months now to no avail.

“That woman is a brick wall,” Irene had said. “Though, I’m obviously not referring to her breasts. What I wouldn’t give to take those lovely beauties in hand and just press –” and Sherlock’s mind had, very considerately, short-circuited right then. Irene had little to no boundaries when it came to all things related to sex. It was only two terms ago that she ushered a newly graduated Ravenclaw into her own private rooms and had her way with her. “She was of age,” Irene had reasoned. “And no longer my student.”

Sherlock would eventually have to tell Irene that she was barking up the wrong tree. It was order that Anthea was in love with. Making things happen and making them happen when they were supposed to. Hogwarts had never been more respected or safe than in her hands and Anthea fed off that prosperity the way Irene fed off of other people’s emotions.

Sherlock pulls his thoughts away from Irene and Anthea and takes a moment to admire John and the way the man’s robe, which he had clearly outgrown, was clung to his shoulders and chest. John was quite the capable flyer, maneuvering easily through the air, one hand gesturing at Lestrade and the other firmly wrapped around the handle of his broom. It makes Sherlock’s cheeks burn and a foreign feeling settles around his spine, hot and distracting.

“Do try to be less overt with your ogling, love,” says Irene from beside him. She places a finger beneath Sherlock’s chin and pushes up. “Best to keep the mouth closed.”

He clenches his jaw and narrows his eyes at her, a slew of retorts queuing up in his mind in order of most hurtful. It had become very easy to hurt Irene once he learned that Irene’s insecurities were his insecurities. 

He is about to say something about Irene’s absent father and how that resulted in her constant need for attention and her fear of getting close to a potential life partner, when he spots Mycroft approaching them.

His forest green robes swish as he makes his careful way towards the Slytherin stands, his deep gold waistcoat glinting through the opening of his robe. He and Irene looked like they were going to the Minister’s Ball dressed the way they were. Sherlock scowls at Mycroft, trying, to make his distaste for his brother palpable enough to make him leave.

“And what, pray tell, are my two most renowned professors doing outside?” asks Mycroft. “I thought Anthea had you reinforcing the school’s wards,” he says to Irene. He turns to Sherlock, “And you. Shouldn’t you be refining Altheda’s Potion?”

Sherlock snorts derisively. Anthea had every professor working on “projects” to improve the school. The poor librarian, a silent and meticulous man by the name of Moran, had been tasked with incorporating all of the books from the Restricted Section into the main library. Anthea felt that having an area of the library that housed “restricted” books only tempted students to break in and take what they wanted without the proper permission. More importantly, Anthea reasoned and Mycroft was inclined to agree, that keeping the students in the dark about the less savory aspects of their history would lead to more problems down the line.

Sherlock’s project was to work on a potion that was only mentioned in children’s fairy tales. Altheda’s Potion was a cure-all elixier that could even bring a person on the brink of death, back to life. The story was ingrained in the wizarding world’s psyche, but references to the ingredients and the exact measurements that were needed to make the potion were scattered. Sherlock had managed to recreate a version of the potion, but its effects were similar to the Pepperup potion. It was myth he was dealing with and what he needed was data. 

When neither Irene nor Sherlock answer Mycroft’s question, he tries again. “Just enjoying a bit of air, then?”

“Well,” says Irene. “Sherlock came down to perv on the new groundskeeper, and I’m just here to make sure he doesn’t make a fool of himself.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows shoot up higher than Sherlock has ever seen them go, and he would laugh if wasn’t trying to hide the flush rising up his neck. Trust Irene to be crude. Sherlock should have known better than telling the DADA teacher anything.

“John brought Sherlock flowers,” continues Irene.

“It was Valerian Root,” snaps Sherlock.

Mycroft looks at Sherlock with a peculiar stare, as if he had underestimated Sherlock all these years and he is just now realizing that his younger brother is human. He opens his mouth to say something, but their attention is drawn by the sound of heavy boots landing on the grass a few feet away from them.

“Well, well, well,” says Lestrade as he strides towards Mycroft. “The big man—outside. Is the castle on fire?”

He makes a show of looking at the castle, squinting his eyes and bringing a hand up to shield his gaze from the sun. “Looks fine,” he says. “What all-important business brings you here in the company of us commoners?”

“Will you ever stop trying to be the class clown?” says Mycroft, seemingly unamused, but Sherlock notices that his jaw is ticking the way it does when he’s trying to bite back a smile.

John is following the exchange with bemusement and he tilts his head to the side in a way that Sherlock immediately finds endearing. 

“I don’t know,” says Lestrade, hooking a thumb beneath the hem of his trousers’ waistband. “Will you ever stop pretending you don’t find me funny?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes at that, and he’s happy to note that Irene does the same. 

Sherlock realizes that John is still standing there, nearly on top of him, and looking down at Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock wonders if he should stand. Maybe shake hands with the other man? He settles on saying “hello” because that offers the least amount of potential humiliation.

“You came,” says John. He has his broom perched over his shoulder and a relaxed air about him. He looks like the slew of Quidditch players that made Sherlock’s life a living hell when he was a student, except Sherlock doesn’t want to run away from John. Quite the opposite actually. The pose, the slight quirk of John’s lips makes Sherlock’s thighs involuntarily flex and he swallows, heavily, before he speaks.

“I did,” says Sherlock. 

“Hope it wasn’t too tedious for you,” says John, smile growing wider.

“Oh, there were some highlights,” says Sherlock.

Merlin. Sherlock was flirting. Was he flirting? He couldn’t be sure. Better check with Irene. He risks a glance at his fellow colleague and the smirk on her face tells Sherlock all he needs to know. 

He feels a light push against the sole of his shoe and looks down at his feet to find John pressing the tip of his Quidditch boot against the arch of Sherlock’s shoe. John doesn’t say anything. He just keeps smiling and applying pressure.

Sherlock doesn’t know what to make of the gesture and looks up to gauge John’s expression. Playfulness is what he finds there but that quickly shifts into something else entirely when Sherlock pushes his foot back against John’s. John licks his lips. He does that a lot. Sherlock has noticed. He averaged at twenty-four licks a day. He wonders if John is aware of it. Maybe Sherlock should tell him. Most people didn’t like it when Sherlock told them about their habits, but maybe John would appreciate it. Find it amusing. Maybe it would flatter John that Sherlock was paying such close attention, and Sherlock very much wanted to flatter John.

Before Sherlock has the chance to do so, Sebastian and Victor touch down and join them. Victor is wearing his Ravenclaw robes, but unlike John he has used an engorgement charm on them to accommodate his height and weight gain. Sebastian has donned a custom-made Quidditch robe. He never made the Slytherin team, even though his father had made considerable donations to the school. His father threatened to pull Sebastian and his money out of the school, but the then Headmistress, McGonagall, had convinced him to keep his son in school. Sherlock wasn’t sure how she managed it, but he was certain Mycroft, who had shadowed McGonagall before he took the mantle of headmaster, was somehow involved. 

And now, his volatile son was the Arithmancy professor because there was no one in the wizarding world who knew numbers like Sebastian Wilkes did.

Victor nods at Sherlock and greets Irene while Sebastian slings an arm over John’s shoulder and smirks down at Sherlock. “You should have joined us out there, Shirley,” says Sebastian. “You should’ve seen him in flying class, John. Could barely get his leg over the broom. Could barely get his leg over a lot of things.”

John shrugs Sebastian’s arm off his shoulder and crosses his arms, shifting his attention back to Mycroft and Lestrade. His back has straightened as his jaw stiffened, posture clearly defensive.

“Yes, it must’ve given you a great sense of worth to ridicule a twelve year old,” says Sherlock, but Sebastian isn’t listening. He is looking between Sherlock and John and after a long moment of considering John’s posture and the nervousness that Sherlock is no doubt having trouble hiding, Sebastian grins like Christmas has come early. He jerks his head at John and raises an eyebrow in question.

John is seemingly oblivious of the exchange and Sherlock glares at Sebastian, refusing to rise to the bait. Sebastian takes a step back and takes in John’s backside. He nods appreciatively and then points to Sherlock and mimes the act of fellatio.

Sherlock ignores it. Things are going well and he doesn’t want to unnecessarily upset John. Though it proves futile as John turns to face Sebastian and says, “You know I can see your shadow.”

Sebastian raises his hands in surrender and says, “It’s just a joke, mate.”

“I’m not your mate,” says John, “and I would think a professor would know better than to act like an immature prat.”

“How about you leave the professing to the actual professors,” says Sebastian. 

Sherlock is on his feet the moment he sees John’s fingers curl to form a fist. He moves so that he is standing between John and the other man, and quickly glances at his brother. Mycroft is standing with his back to the group and is in what appears to be deep conversation with Lestrade. Irene is standing now too, wand already in hand, while Victor stands next to her, his discomfort written all over his face and hunched stance. 

“I think it’s great you’ve got yourself someone,” says Sebastian. “Now you can go from being a virgin freak to just being a freak.”

Sherlock sees red, and his wand rattles in the sleeve of his robe, begging to be wielded. Sebastian was powerful, but he was slow unlike Sherlock who could cast a spell faster than any wizard in Hogwarts’ history. But before he lets himself do something stupid in front of his brother, he pulls away from Sebastian and drags John with him.

“Sebastian is the worst kind of idiot,” Sherlock tells John who still has his head turned towards Sebastian’s self-satisfied stance. “The kind who’s good at one thing and thinks he’s good at everything.”

He pulls John with a little more force—better to get him away from Sebastian as soon as possible. Maybe they could go to the kitchens and get some of the cherry tarts that were served yesterday. John had consumed nearly six of them at dinner, licking his fingers clean after each one. Sherlock had cursed Mike for being so portly that he blocked a majority of John from his view at the staff table. Sherlock would have to amend the seating arrangement. He could definitely stand not sitting next to Irene or Lestrade anymore and that way Sherlock could gather more data on John.

Sherlock turns toward John, intent on asking him if he’d like to sit beside him at dinner, but John frees himself from Sherlock’s grasp and in six purposeful strides is at Sebastian’s side, pulling his arm back and then launching his fist into the other man’s face. There is an audible crack and even Irene, who was the least squeamish person Sherlock knows, cringes.

Sebastian falls to the ground, clutching his nose with a hand that is already covered with a fair amount of blood.

“Boy’s got quite the arm,” says Irene, impressed.

“What, in the name of Merlin, is happening here?” says Mycroft appearing at Sherlock’s side. He doesn’t yell, but the anger in his voice is unmistakable. He turns to Irene expectantly.

“Well,” says Irene, looking between John and Sherlock. “I think John was protecting Sherlock’s honor.”

Lestrade rushes towards Sebastian’s side to check on him. Sherlock has to keep himself from smiling; no use aggravating the situation. John has adopted a submissive posture, arms behind him and gaze fixed on the ground. 

“Professor Wilkes?” asks Mycroft. “Care to enlighten us.”

“The crazy bastard just hit me,” says Sebastian, still cupping his nose.

John approaches Sebastian with his wand drawn. “I could set it right for you, if you’d like.”

“You stay away from me, you neanderthal,” yells Sebastian. 

“Gregory, get the professor to Madame Hooper,” says Mycroft. “Let’s have the professional take care of this.”

Lestrade gives Mycroft a curt nod and places a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder. Mycroft catches Lestrade by the sleeve before he can help Sebastian up and says, “Do clean him up before you go into the school. And make sure none of the students see you.”

Lestrade rolls his eyes, but nods anyway, tugging Sebastian up off the ground and ferrying the sniveling professor away.

Mycroft turns to John next. “John, you go wait at the hut until I decide what to do.”

John nods gravely and bows his head. Sherlock wants to go to the other man, lift his chin up and tell John how bloody amazing he was. But Mycroft isn’t done with doling out demands. He finally turns on Sherlock, pointing an accusatory finger at his chest and says, “And you, you come to my office.”

Mycroft leaves, the hem of his robe sweeping about him in a dramatic flutter.

Sherlock approaches John, placing both hands on the other man’s shoulders. “I’ll take care of this.”

John offers him a small, defeated smile that makes Sherlock’s chest ache.

“Trust me,” he says and stalks off after his brother.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thank you to lareginaphantom for beta, brit-pick, HP-pick, and for reminding me how important pacing is.

Sherlock chases Mycroft down the dimly lit halls of the school. The corridors are quiet and empty except for the occasional ghost floating just above Sherlock’s head.

“And where are we off to in such a hurry?” asks one as Sherlock sweeps past him. 

Sherlock doesn’t bother answering. He focuses his energy on catching up with his brother, who is moving so swiftly that Sherlock has to lengthen his strides.

Sherlock could always outrun his older brother. When they were younger, Sherlock had no trouble evading his brother’s reach. But Mycroft was always able to walk faster than Sherlock, like he is doing now. Sherlock reasons it’s because running required the use of different muscles than walking. But occasionally, Sherlock wonders if the discrepancy says something about the type of people he and his brother are. 

Sherlock always ran to his destinations and made a lot of commotion doing it. Mycroft snaked towards his goals, steadily, making sure to acquire as many contacts as possible along the way.

Mycroft makes it to the gargoyle blocking the entrance to his office before Sherlock does. 

“Chudley Canons,” he says to the statue and the figure shifts, stone grating against stone. Mycroft steps onto the ascending staircase and Sherlock has just enough time to hop onto the rising pedestal just as the opening to the passage is about to close.

“Letting Lestrade set your passwords again?” asks Sherlock. The staircase is cramped and Mycroft refuses to look at him, opting to gaze ahead instead at the rapidly approaching archway. 

He has shifted into his Headmaster role, shedding that of the older brother. He doesn’t look at Sherlock until he is seated behind his desk. 

The face of Minerva McGonogall stares down at Sherlock from a portrait that hangs over Mycroft's head. Her lips are pursed, the same way they were when Sherlock found himself in this very same office under the very same gaze when he was a student at Hogwarts and McGonogall was the Deputy Headmistress. Little has changed, except now it’s Mycroft who is donning the look of exasperation and disapproval. In fact, Mycroft’s countenance is eerily similar to McGonogall’s and Sherlock briefly wonders if it’s the fate of each Headmaster to slowly morph into their predecessor. 

Mycroft laces his fingers together. “What happened?” he asks.

Sherlock charges into a rant, eager to defend John, desperate for Mycroft not to send away the only interesting thing to happen to him since ingesting a nearly lethal does of Felix Felicis with Pepperup potion.

“Sebastian was baiting him,” he says. “Well… baiting me, and John— apparently John has a very high moral sense, because he punched him, but only after he—Sebastian—provoked him. Provoked me.”

Mycroft openly gapes at him. “Never, in the thirty-five years I have known you, have I heard you stumble through a sentence like that. Not even when Victor accidentally cast Incendio on your Puffskein.”

Sherlock remembers that incident all too clearly. He was seven years old and the sounds of Agrippa’s deafening screeches could be heard all through the manor. Sherlock never fully forgave Victor for it and he swore to never take in a pet again.

“I do find it interesting that he chose to, as Irene put it, “defend your honour” with a physical attack,” says Mycroft.

“John is muggleborn, and he was stationed with the giants, who, as you know, are suspicious of magic. Therefore, his first instinct would be to retaliate physically. Obvious.”

Mycroft hums in response. “Mummy will be thrilled. A muggleborn.”

Mummy can go stuff it, is what Sherlock wants to say, but he bites his tongue. Nothing ever ended well when they brought Mummy into it.

Behind him, the staircase spirals again and it’s followed by Lestrade noisily entering the office, scraping his feet against the stone with every step. It was an irritating habit of Lestrade’s and Sherlock can’t fathom how his brother puts up with it.

“How is he?” asks Mycroft, standing up.

“Molly mended his nose. Just a night in the infirmary with a few cold compresses, and he’ll be fine,” says Lestrade. He places a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder and the headmaster visibly sags with relief under Lestrade’s touch. 

“Thank Merlin,” says Mycroft. “The last thing I need is for Sebastian’s father to stop offering donations."

Sherlock regrets that the damage to Sebastian isn’t permanent, but it is probably for the best. “I don’t understand why you don’t just sack him. He’s more trouble than he’s worth.”

Mycroft gives Sherlock a smile tinged with regret. “Hogwarts doesn’t run on magic alone, dear brother.”

“John packs quite the punch,” says Lestrade. “Wouldn’t know it looking at him.” He picks up one of the telescopes on Mycroft’s desk, inspecting it from all angles. “Remind me never to cross him.”

“You two seem to be getting along just fine,” says Sherlock. He isn’t jealous, but it was impossible not to notice how quickly Lestrade and John had bonded. 

Lestrade gives a long whistle in response. “Baby brother’s got it bad, hasn’t he,” he says. Lestrade is smirking at him, and Sherlock is irked to note that Mycroft is donning a similar expression, though his has a hint of fondness in it.

Sherlock suddenly feels like he’s fourteen years old and he’s just walked in on his brother and the then Auror Lestrade refastening their belt buckles and adjusting their shirt collars in Mycroft’s ministry office . 

“I think it’s wonderful, Sherlock,” says Mycroft. “Nevertheless, in the future, do try to keep yourself and Mr. Watson out of trouble.”

 

#

Sherlock rushes through the halls, intent on getting back to John and telling him the good news. He wants to avoid the rush of students returning from Hogsmeade. He doesn’t detest his students; though he finds them immensely bothersome when they come to him with questions. Luckily, his teaching style mostly consists of monitoring the students as they attempt to brew potions. In the rare occasion that a student had a question, Sherlock would provide the student with such an overwhelming amount of information that the student wouldn’t bother asking anything again. 

He’s glad that Mycroft was so agreeable. Almost too agreeable in Sherlock’s opinion. Mycroft would never be so quick to overlook an infraction that could potentially harm the school’s reputation, even something as small as a faculty spat. Sherlock would have to break into Mycroft’s office and retrieve John’s file. It seems that there is more to John Watson than meets the eye.

A figure comes hastening towards Sherlock from the opposite end of the hall, and Sherlock has to suppress a groan. It is Richard Brooke, the Charms professor. A skittish fellow with an unfortunate stutter and severely arched eyebrows that always gave him a surprised look, Brooke wasn’t at the top of anyone’s preferred company list.

“Just heard about Professor Wilkes,” says Brooke. “Is he alright?”

“He’ll be fine,” says Sherlock, itching to get back to John. “Nothing permanent.”

“That’s good, that’s good,” says Brooke. His voice is soft and unimposing as always, with an odd lilt to it . 

Sherlock nods and turns. The clock has just struck six and the students are bound to return soon. He is four paces away when Brooke says, “Can’t say the git didn’t deserve it.” 

Sherlock looks back, surprised. In the two years he has known Brooke, the man has never voiced a negative opinion towards anyone. He instantly feels a wave of camaraderie towards the man and snorts in appreciation. “Indeed,” says Sherlock, resuming his trek and breaking out into a jog when the entrance of the school doesn’t appear fast enough.

When Sherlock makes it to the grounds, he notices small tufts of smoke coming from the chimney of the hut. The weather outside is fairly warm for October and Sherlock wonders why the groundskeeper would need to light a fire. 

He trots through the grass towards John’s hut. The sun has newly set and the sky is lit up by the new moon. In the distance, he can hear the growing chatter of the students returning from Hogsmeade. Sherlock hastens his pace and when he reaches John’s door, he takes a deep breath and knocks twice.

He hears the sound of something being knocked over, likely a stool, inside the hut followed by a flurry of curses and the sound of more furniture jostling as John clamours to answer the door. 

The door opens and reveals John, face flushed and a lovely sheen of sweat coating his forehead. 

Sherlock stands and stares with his mouth agape at the sight of the other man. John has always had that effect on Sherlock. In the few weeks he's known the groundskeeper, John has, without fail, made Sherlock stop in his tracks and rock back and forth on the heels of his feet as he tried to regain balance. At first, Sherlock had thought John had cast a spell on him, one that made Sherlock look like an idiot at every given chance, but closer inspection had marked John himself as the culprit. It was the way John tilted his head to the side like an inquisitive rabbit. It was the dip of John’s brow when he was thinking about something. It was the way those capable hands of John’s gripped his wand, his broom, the door knob to the Potion’s classroom when Sherlock was levitating a stack of books and John swooped in to open the door.

Sherlock always needs a second to collect himself when he's accosted with the charms of John Watson.

He takes a deep breath and says, “Everything is fine. Sebastian is fine.”

John breathes out a sigh of relief. “And Mycroft? Is he upset?”

“Only because Sebastian is a prat. Though, he did advise us both to keep a low profile.”

“Great,” says John. He is wringing his hands and still blocking the entrance to the hut. “Great.” 

Sherlock peers behind the man into the hut. There’s a small fire burning in the hearth and he can see embers glowing through the grate of the black iron stove.

“Cooking something?” he asks. 

John nods. “Baking.”

Sherlock pushes past John and moves straight towards the oven and peers inside. Scones. He turns to look at John. “Baking. You’re baking,” says Sherlock, his voice incredulous.

John runs a hand through the hair at the nape of his neck. “Yes. So? Men can bake.”

“We have a kitchen stocked with food. Why would you be baking?”

“It relaxes me,” says John, placing his hands on his hips in a way that was far too matronly for Sherlock’s taste.

Sherlock nods and takes in his surroundings. The hut is actually far more spacious than it appears on the outside. Everything is in one, large circular space with nothing separating the kitchen from the bedroom and the living space. There are two doors towards the back, one of which undoubtedly leads outside and Sherlock assumes the other is a restroom. The room is furnished with lots of mahogany, the tables, the stools, the bed frame are all made of the wood.

There are two, plush soft leather sofas in the living space that Sherlock plops himself down on. 

“That was a bold move,” he says. “Hitting a faculty member with the Headmaster present. You don’t strike me as a rash man. Surely, you wouldn’t put your job in jeopardy over a few snide remarks.” 

“I just—” John rakes a hand through his hair and averts his eyes. “I didn’t like what he was saying and how he was saying it.”

Sherlock doesn’t doubt John’s disapproval of Sebastian’s remarks. Nor does he want to sound ungrateful for what John did, but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s missing something and he would bet his year's wages that Mycroft was somehow involved. 

He lets it lie for the moment.

An uncomfortable silence settles over the hut. There is light crackling from the fire and the soft scent of smoke fills the room.

“I’m not a virgin,” Sherlock blurts out. He doesn’t want John thinking he’s inexperienced or disinterested in sex. His exploits were few and far between, but always memorable. The two instances that Sherlock marked as highly favorable were with older men, one, a Scottish Quidditch player whose technique was fairly straight-forward, but incredibly vigorous and effective, and the other, a high-born pure-blood with shockingly blond hair and a fondness for whips and restraints. Sherlock hoped that John fell somewhere in the middle of the two. 

“I just thought you should know,” he says.

John is suddenly struck with nervous energy, standing up and looking around the hut for something to busy his hands with. 

“Good,” says John. “That’s good.” He picks up a pan only to put it down again. “I mean, not that it’s my business,” he continues. “But good for you. Great, even. Sex is great for you. Not that I’d know about you specifically, but in general it’s—”

John heavily drops onto a stool. During the course of his ramble he has put on two oven mittens, thrown a towel over his left shoulder and has an empty pan resting in his hands. “I’m going to shut up now.”

Sherlock smirks down at the other man. “That would probably be best,” he says.

The smell of smoke grows stronger and is accompanied by the acrid scent of something burning.

“Do you smell—” Sherlock begins to ask as John shoots out of his chair and says, “The scones.”

John kneels at the stove and pulls open the oven door. A cloud of smoke sweeps forward as John yanks the pan out. He waves the smoke away and as he stands with the tray in one hand, he loses his balance and the pan slides from his grasp.

Without thinking, Sherlock lunges forward and grabs the pan, the hot metal burning his skin.

“Damn,” hisses Sherlock. He throws the pan along with the burnt scones onto the table and nurses his hand. His fingers and the side of his palm are slowly turning red and his skin feels like it's ablaze.

“Shit,” says John. "I'm sorry. Here, let me look at it." He guides Sherlock to one of the sofas and has him sit down. He brings over a low stool and sets it right in front of Sherlock. John pulls out his wand from his back pocket and Sherlock's eyes fasten on to it. Sherlock has developed an obsession with John's wand. He wants to hold it again. He wants to wield it. When Sherlock had held John's wand, he had felt a sense of calm wash over him that slowly crystallized into the fiercest focus he had ever known. And Sherlock knew it had nothing to do with the wand's make or core.

John perches on the edge of the stool and takes Sherlock's hand into his own. His skin is rough, but his touch is gentle. He turns Sherlock's palm upwards and begins to circle his wand over Sherlock's burns. John's eyes flutter shut and he starts to mutter a string of words in Latin.

Sherlock leans in close to watch John. Most wizards’ magic repelled people. A protective ring would form around the spell-caster giving him or her a brief respite of sorts. John’s magic pulls people in and Sherlock can’t help being drawn in by that voice and John’s smell, the evocative scent of forest trees and green apples.

“You’re a healer,” says Sherlock, his voice soft. “Only healers shut their eyes while casting healing spells.”

John snaps his eyes open and looks up at Sherlock. "That's very observant of you."

“Not observant enough,” says Sherlock as his burns begin to tingle and cool. “Why would my brother hire a healer for a groundskeeper?”

John’s breath is hot on Sherlock’s face and it smells sweet and tangy, as if he’d been sipping on a Butterbeer.

“Do you work for my brother?” asks Sherlock.

“We all work for your brother,” says John.

“We work for the school.”

“Sherlock,” says John, grabbing the collar of Sherlock’s robe and pulling him close enough that his breath brushes over Sherlock’s lips. 

“Shut up,” says John and he surges upwards, pressing his lips against Sherlock's. 

For a moment, Sherlock is shocked into stillness, but then John begins to move his lips and it sets every inch of Sherlock on fire. He curls his fists into John’s hair and pulls the other man closer.

He pries John’s lips open with his tongue and delves in, licking at the warm insides of John’s mouth. John arches up into Sherlock and moans loudly. John places his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and deepens the kiss, seeking out Sherlock's tongue with his own. A warm and persistent heat settles in Sherlock's belly and he is wondering if he should pull John up onto his lap or if that would be too forward, when John’s stomach lets out a loud growl.

Sherlock reluctantly pulls back and looks down at John’s stomach. He wills himself not to look any lower. "Hungry?" he asks.

“Starving,” says John and lets out a nervous chuckle.

Sherlock stands, and places more distance between himself and John even though his mind screams at him not to. “We can go to the kitchen,” he says. “Anderson should be out for his nightly firewhiskey break by now.”

John stands as well and brushes the front of his trousers. “Anderson?” 

Sherlock’s mouth curls in disgust. “The head kitchen elf and the most cantankerous being you’ll ever meet.”

John nods with a bemused smile on his face and grabs his coat.

Sherlock holds the door open for him. “You can have some more of those tarts that you’re so fond of.”

“Have you been watching me eat?” asks John, buttoning his coat and stepping outside.

“If you mean, have I been observing the nightly disappearance of a dozen tarts from the serving platter nearest you, then yes.”

John pinches Sherlock’s side and Sherlock lets out a loud “eep” that he decides not to feel embarrassed about—not when John is giggling like a mad man and breaking out in a light jog to escape Sherlock’s reach.

John is only twenty feet away, but his figure has already become a silhouette under the growing dark. Still, his laughter is clear and luminescent, and it carries through the air, beckoning. Sherlock lets out a sigh of contentment and chases after it, feeling younger than he has in years.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thank you to lareginaphantom for Beta, Brit-pick, and Harry Potter-pick!

Anthea enforced a strict policy when it came to meals in the Great Hall; she expected all of the staff to be in the lounge well before their food was set to arrive. That way, they could discuss any announcements that needed to be made during the course of the meal. Sherlock was always late to the staff lounge, and today was no exception.

He was running through the halls, adjusting the buttons of his robes as he snaked past students o n their way to the Great Hall. He was running late because he spent the night going through every single piece of parchment in Mycroft’s office, looking for information on John. 

Getting in Mycroft’s office was easy enough; it only took him three tries to get the password right. It was Sugar Quills, Lestrade’s favourite candy. As charming as Mycroft thought it was to let Lestrade set his passwords, it was a security risk and Sherlock planned on telling his brother so—after he found the information he was looking for. Because, hard as he looked, Sherlock couldn’t find anything on John, nothing, not even his job contract. There were John’s school records, but those told Sherlock nothing other than the fact that John excelled at Defense Against the Dark Arts, Charms, was Hufflepuff Prefect three years in a row, and a Hatstall. That last bit of information didn’t come as a complete surprise. Sherlock could easily see John in excelling in Gryffindor; there were few people who were brave enough to pursue Sherlock Holmes. Or at least that was the case after the allure of Sherlock’s physical charms wore off. Sherlock made a mental note to ask John just how long it took for the hat to decide which house to place him in. 

The hat knew where Sherlock belonged almost immediately, roaring out “Ravenclaw” as soon as the brim had touched Sherlock’s hair. Mycroft was a different matter. It took the hat four and a half minutes to place the older Holmes, just thirty seconds short of being a Hatstall. Mycroft wore his Slytherin colours proudly. He brought the house a level of respectability that it hadn’t enjoyed in years, both as a student and as the current headmaster. But he never favoured one house over another. “Competition is good,” he would tell the staff at the beginning of each new term. “But house rivalries are another thing completely. They’ll gain their fair share of prejudices outside these walls.”

Sherlock had visited the office after he and John went to the kitchens. Sherlock munched on a few biscuits, but for the most part he watched John devour three cherry tarts and lick a bowl of chocolate pudding clean. Sherlock had come to the conclusion that John loved food. He savoured it, took his time to chew each bit properly, wrapping his mouth around each spoonful, and licking at the corners of his mouth with his tongue. Sherlock wondered if John knew just how enamoured he was with food—and just how enamoured Sherlock was with watching John conduct this love affair with said food.

He would be able to watch John eat again shortly, in fifteen minutes to be exact.

The staff lounge was a small room to the side of where the Hogwarts’ staff sat in the Great Hall. Sherlock barreled through its door, hoping to avoid Anthea’s wrath. Predictably, the entire staff was already there and they all fixed their eyes on Sherlock when he entered the room. Mycroft rolled his eyes at him, and Sherlock took that as a sure sign that his brother had no idea that Sherlock had been in his office last night.

“Nice of you to join us, Sherlock,” said Anthea, coming to a halt in front of him. She had her dreadful clipboard with her and a quill in hand. Sherlock wasn’t afraid of her, but for such a petite woman, she commanded a tremendous amount of authority. Anthea was exceptionally gifted at charms and one display of her casting Silencio on the entire Gryffindor table when they wouldn’t quiet for the evening announcements had cemented her unrelenting efficacy to the entire school. 

She blinked slowly at Sherlock and looked at him with the same expression she always had when she spoke to him: that of an adult humouring a spoiled child. She cleared her throat and asked him how his work on Althea’s potion was coming along. 

“It’s coming,” he said, moving past her to seek out John. He quickly spotted him in the back of the room leaning against a counter. 

He wasn’t alone. Richard Brook was speaking to him rather enthusiastically. He had an arm around John’s shoulder and was pointing vigourously at the space in front of him.

“Looks like Brook is getting fresh with your man,” said Lestrade, slinging an arm around Sherlock’s shoulder.

“He’s not- we’re not-” Sherlock sighed. There was no use denying it. Not to Lestrade who, from the start, was irritatingly perceptive of Sherlock’s interest in John. “What have they been talking about?”

“Well,” said Lestrade. “Brook was just telling John how impressed he was with what John’s done with the grounds, and that he’d been watching John exert himself and if he needed any help, any help at all, he wouldn’t mind lending a hand.”

“Must everything you say be wrought with innuendo?” said Sherlock. One glance at John’s body language, arms crossed, nodding absent-mindedly at Brook’s remarks, told Sherlock that he had nothing to worry about. 

“What are we looking at?” asked Irene, slipping an arm through Sherlock’s. 

“Brook’s cornered John,” said Lestrade.

Irene let out a mock gasp. “Where does he get off?”

“Oh, I think we both know where he’d like to be getting off,” said Lestrade.

They snickered together and Sherlock rolled his eyes. Someone must have cursed him in his early childhood, because time and time again he found himself in the presence of the most unsubtle people. He slithered out of their grasp and made his way towards John. He came to a halt behind Brook, saying nothing, but he looked down at John with bemusement. 

John’s demeanor completely changed when he caught sight of Sherlock. He visibly brightened, standing up straighter and quirking his lips into a small smile.

“Good morning,” said Sherlock, making Brook jump in his place. 

Brook clutched at his chest and let out a nervous chuckle. “Professor Holmes. Good morning.” He placed a hand on John’s shoulder. “I was just telling John how much we appreciate the work he’s done. The grounds look lovely. Really, really lovely.”

Sherlock said nothing and just stared down at Brook.

Brook slid his hand off of John and cleared his throat. “Yes. Well, I’m going to join the others.”

John looked up at Sherlock with fond exasperation. “Was that really necessary?”

“He was standing very close,” said Sherlock.

“Right. The possessive type,” said John. “I’ll make sure to remember that.” He placed a hand on Sherlock’s side, just above the belt of his trousers, and stroked the area with his thumb. “We should get going,” he said and followed the rest of the staff out into the Great Hall.

The morning light shone through the arched window behind the staff table, making Sherlock grimace and turn his gaze towards the hall. The hall was empty save for a scattering of students across the four house tables and a lone owl that flew across the expanse of the hall in long, lazy loops. The plates on the head table were empty, but there were jugs of coffee positioned between every four place settings. Sherlock strode to his seat, intent on pouring himself a cup. He needed the extra boost. He had the Gryffindor and Slytherin first years immediately following breakfast. Also, he found himself needing more and more coffee for focus. His mind grew increasingly muddled by the day and Sherlock had a strong suspicion that it had to do with the strong-shouldered Hufflepuff who had set up a permanent residence in Sherlock’s thoughts.

When he went to pull out his chair, John covered his hand with his own, stilling Sherlock’s movement. 

Sherlock opened his mouth to ask John what he thought he was doing. Anthea didn’t take to kindly to changes in the seating arrangements. She had toiled long and hard placing each staff member in their current spots—which really boiled down to figuring out which teachers would tolerate sitting next to or within hearing distance of Sherlock.

“I spoke to Anthea,” said John by way of explanation. “She said I could sit next to you if everyone left of Lestrade moved down a seat.”

Sherlock quickly did the calculations in his head: the person at the end of the table, Moran, would have to move to the other side next to Brook. That would mean John would sit next to Sherlock, a welcome barrier between him and Lestrade, an extra person between him and Mycroft. Sherlock was elated and he leaned over the table, peering to the right of Mycroft’s seat, to catch Anthea’s eye. She caught his glance and gave him a soft smile, one of a fellow conspirator, before returning to survey the arrival of students in the hall.

Sherlock wanted to kiss John. Do something absurd like peck the tip of his round nose. But he settled for smiling down at the man as he pulled up his chair and smiling to himself as he leaned over John to get a third scone and strips of bacon and a spoonful of eggs, none of which he planned on eating and all of which he sought so that he could feel the press of John’s thighs against his and the steady blow of John’s breath against his nape. 

 

#

 

When breakfast was over, Sherlock watched John walk down the hall, but not before he pulled John close and told him to meet him later that evening. He needed to collect some ingredients from the Forbidden Forest for his first years—they were brewing the Wiggenwald potion tomorrow and required a generous supply of Wiggentree bark—and Sherlock thought the task would seem less tedious if John were with him. It would also let Sherlock see John under the moonlight again, which Sherlock, even with his cynical attitude towards romance and starlight, had to admit was a captivating sight. 

John had straightened the collar of Sherlock’s robe, letting his thumb skim the line of Sherlock’s jaw. “It’s a date,” John had said. 

Aware that Lestrade was watching them, Sherlock didn’t react to John’s touch. Though he did track the top of John’s head until it disappeared in the throng of students, some of which, Sherlock was amused to note, were several inches taller than the groundskeeper.

Lestrade came to stand beside him, slapping Sherlock on the back. “Just remember, no snogging in the halls. Us professors need to set an example.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and strode forward, students scrambling to move out of his path. He had a class to get to and a gaggle of lackluster students waiting to be instructed on the proper way to extract the slime out of a Billywig. Sherlock anticipated that at least a handful of those students would purposefully sting themselves with the insect. A sting from a Billywig induced giddiness and caused the person to levitate. Sherlock didn’t look forward to spending his class ferrying down snickering students from the ceiling of the potions’ classroom.

Lestrade fell in step with Sherlock, his gray robes sweeping about the Quidditch instructor. Lestrade had on his boots, but none of the other gear he donned whilst giving his flying lessons. Anthea forbade Lestrade from wearing his gear at the table, saying that the extra padding crowded an already tight space. 

He had summoned his equipment with a spell, slipping on his elbow pads as the rest of his gear and broom floated beside him. 

Sherlock knew that Lestrade was in Mycroft’s confidence. His brother trusted the man implicitly, even more than he trusted Sherlock. If there were something to know about John, Lestrade would know it.

“Did you know John was a healer?” asked Sherlock with feigned disinterest. 

Lestrade came to a halt, his broom clattering to the floor beside him. “I- I didn’t.” 

Lestrade was a good enough liar. Sherlock had seen it first hand on the numerous occasions when the then Auror had to convince Mycroft that the dangerous missions to which he was assigned weren’t all that dangerous. It was the instructor’s hesitation that gave him away and the way he clamped his lips shut tightly after he had spoken. Sherlock decided not to push it further, though. If he asked too many questions, Lestrade would go to Mycroft and that would be the end of his inquiries. It might even get John in trouble, or worse, sent away, and that was the last thing Sherlock wanted.

“Well, he is. He healed my hand yesterday. Quite expertly.” He decided to change the subject. Hopefully Lestrade would forget he ever asked. 

“He has a good bedside manner,” he said, moving onto a topic Lestrade had little trouble discussing. The man seemed oddly invested in Sherlock’s relationship, if one could even call it that, with John. When Mycroft started dating Lestrade, Sherlock didn’t care one bit, apart from the fact that it gave him another gateway into the Ministry and its bank of information. It was impossible to get anything from Mycroft, but a young Auror who was eager to get in the good graces of his non-committal boyfriend’s brother, that was painfully easy.

Lestrade snorted. “Good bedside manner. With you? I bet he does.”

“Would you get your head out of the gutter?” snapped Sherlock. 

Lestrade’s lascivious grin turned into a fond one. “Can you blame me? It’s you. In a relationship. After all those years of grief you gave your brother about me, you have to let me have fun with this.”

“We never said we were in a relationship.”

Lestrade smirked at him. “‘We’ now, is it?”

Sherlock made no response, cursing himself for the careless slip up. He opted to scan the group of straggling students for someone to dock points from. Preferably someone from Lestrade’s house.

“I remember when your brother and I were like that,” said Lestrade, an annoyingly wistful look on his face. “Couldn’t keep my hands off him. I thought I’d go mad when I wasn’t touching him.”

Sherlock kept quiet. There had been a lot of touching. Sherlock had been able to restrain himself, for the most part, but John was always pawing at him, poking, prodding, and pinching. John’s touches were welcome, very welcome, but it made it hard for Sherlock to go about his daily work and if the Hufflepuff wasn’t careful, he’d find himself shoved up against an alcove one of these days as Sherlock had his way with him. 

Lestrade halted and turned to face Sherlock, placing a bracing hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and making him face the other man. He really was a lot older than him. Sherlock tended to forget that—it was as if Lestrade had a boundless reserve of energy. Sherlock knew he did a lot for the school as the Deputy Headmaster, and Merlin only knew how much Lestrade was keeping Mycroft’s ambitions in check.

Lestrade took a deep breath and looked Sherlock straight in the eye. “I’m genuinely happy for you, Sherlock. If only for the fact that I’ll get to watch your mother put you and John in the ringer like she did your brother and me.”

 

#

 

Sherlock had met John just outside the hut with his wand and a satchel in hand. John was wearing his leather jacket, but underneath that he had on a thick sweater—a grey, woolen one that made Sherlock grow itchy just from looking at it. The air was crisp, and Sherlock felt the sting of the cold across his cheeks.

John stood on his tiptoes and greeted Sherlock by giving him a quick peck on the lips. “Evening,” he said, his voice low, sending a sharp flash of heat through Sherlock’s body. He couldn’t remember if John’s voice was always that low, his words wrapping around Sherlock like a warm blanket.

Sherlock gave him a curt nod. “Yes. Good.” He drew his wand and after clearing his throat, he cast a quick Lumos. “Keep an eye out. The Dark Lord may be dead, but evil creatures lived here long before Voldemort decided to prowl these woods.”

“Yes, thank you, Headmaster,” John said with amusement. “I did actually go to school here.”

They fell quiet and together set out towards the row of trees that marked the beginning of the Forbidden Forest. John stayed close behind him, silent save for the sharp puffs of air he gave as he climbed over fallen trees and brush. 

Sherlock had to keep reminding himself to slow down. Sure, John was stationed with the giants for a spell, but no amount of high-altitude training could change the fact that John had short legs. 

They collected half a satchel’s worth of the Wiggentree bark, chipping off a modest amount from the cluster of trees closest to the outskirts of the forest. Sherlock was careful not to take too much from one tree; it would not do to deplete the sources closest to the school. There was no telling when they would need more of the tree’s bark as it was a common ingredient in many potions. Also, taking too much from one tree would invoke the wrath of the Bowtruckles, the nasty, long-clawed, tree dwellers who guarded the Wiggentrees.

About a mile into the forest, they came across a tree with a trunk that was over ten feet wide. Sherlock handed John the satchel and aimed his wand at the trunk’s heart. He cast a spell that carved a clean line around the outer shell of the tree, loosening the bark and letting it fall into John’s outstretched hand.

“Did you know,” asked Sherlock as he skimmed his hand over the rough bark, “anyone who touches one of these trees is safe from Dark creatures, but only while they’re touching it. It’s why its wood is commonly used in wand making.”

John was leaning against the tree, watching Sherlock’s face as he worked. “You really are a Ravenclaw to the core,” said John, voice soft.

“Why do you say that?” asked Sherlock. He took the satchel from John and inspected its contents. One more tree and they would have enough.

“No reason,” said John. He brought a hand to Sherlock’s hair and plucked at something between the strands. Sherlock was certain there was nothing in his hair.

“You had a twig,” said John. Streaks of moonlight broke through the leaves above them and shone on John’s face, making his eyes glow with a brightness that made Sherlock want to run.

“Why did the hat place you in Hufflepuff instead of Gryffindor?” asked Sherlock, desperate to learn more, learn anything about this impossible man.

For a moment, John looked taken aback, but the lines on his face settled and he pursed his lips in thought. “Well, it asked me if given the choice between doing what was right and saving my friends, which would I choose. I said I’d choose my friends.”

He gave a slight shrug of his shoulders and met Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock didn’t know what it was about John’s gesture or John’s words, but he found himself dropping the satchel of bark and pushing John against the tree.

He parted John’s legs with the press of his knee, running it up along the inside of John’s thigh until it met the other man’s groin. 

John hissed with pleasure, his eyes fluttering shut and his hands grabbing at Sherlock’s shoulders. He exhaled through his nose with harsh breaths and when he spoke, his words were slow and heated with lust. “You know, we’re both adults here.”

Sherlock let the words hover between them as he dug his knee down and over John’s hardening length. “I’m well aware of the fact.”

“I’m just—I’m just saying that we don’t have to take this slow,” said John, humming low in his throat. “You could, if you wanted to, you know… we could—”

John didn’t say exactly what they “could,” but the slow roll of his hips gave Sherlock a good idea.

The possibilities raced through his head. He could brace John against the tree, make him face it; hug the cool bark as Sherlock buried himself deep within him. Or he could drop to his knees and taste John, have John mewling and clawing at Sherlock’s hair. Or he could lie back on the grass, part his legs and let John maneuver in and over his body.

Just the thought of it, it made Sherlock dizzy with want. He fisted a hand in John’s hair and tugged upwards, exposing the smooth line of John’s neck. 

“We could,” he said in agreement, and bit down on that inviting expanse of skin. 

John let out a sharp moan that sounded achingly desperate in the quiet cocoon of the late night. He curled his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and pulled him closer, canting his hips up and aligning his hardness with Sherlock’s.

Sherlock gasped, burying his head further into John’s neck and thrusting against the other man. He brought his hands down towards the hem of John’s jumper, un-tucking the shirt he wore beneath it and running his fingers over the taut skin of John’s stomach. He brought his hands lower, settling over John’s trouser button.

John dug back against the tree, clawing at Sherlock’s pectorals with his fingers. His cheeks were red and there was a lovely sheen across his neck. “Merlin, yes,” he moaned. 

Sherlock undid the button and held John’s zipper between his thumb and index finger, tugging at the metal, but not pulling it down.

“I swear, Sherlock, if you don’t take off my pants and get me off right now, I’ll—”

But Sherlock didn’t hear what John would do because a loud burst sounded off in the distance, quickly followed by a series of trickling crackles.

Sherlock’s head snapped up to the sky above Hogwarts—red sparks. Someone had cast Periculum.

“Looks like it came from near the lake,” said John, buttoning his trousers and pulling out his wand. He pointed it towards the school and cast Accio.

“Let’s go,” he said, moving towards the school at a brisk speed. John’s broom, a Nimbus, met them at the quarter mile mark and John hopped on it. He gestured at Sherlock to hop on, which Sherlock did hesitantly. He straddled the broom, wrapping one arm firmly around John’s waist, and holding his wand at the ready with the other. 

Before John leaned forward and whisked them both away with a sharp jolt, he looked back at Sherlock and told him to hold on tightly. They whizzed past the trees so loudly that Sherlock couldn’t tell John that he already was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've changed the tense to past tense; it just seemed like a better fit for the story. Hope it isn't too jarring. I'll go back and change the rest when I have time.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the teeny-weeny HP/DM (my first otp) shout out at the end.
> 
> Please leave some feedback, whether it's a comment or a kudos. I know it sounds lame, but knowing people are enjoying this gives me the confidence and the motivation to keep writing. And all feedback is welcome - con-crit or otherwise.


	5. Chapter 5

They rushed past the castle in a whirl, the oncoming wind burning Sherlock’s eyes dry and making his robe whip about him as they swerved left and right. He clung to John’s abdomen, curling his fingers around the man’s thick jumper, and he held his wand straight ahead of him at eye-level. John did the same, expertly navigating the broom with just one hand.

 

Sherlock was mildly irritated. He’d bet ten Galleons that the spell had been cast by some idiot student who had decided to take a late night dip in the lake. It was a common pastime with the co-eds, one that he never took part in during his tenure as a student at Hogwarts, but sure enough, every term, some thick-headed Gryffindor (and he hated to generalize about the houses, but there it was) found his or herself pissing themselves in fear because the Giant Squid skimmed one of its tentacles across their legs.

 

And right when things with John were getting heated.

 

There would be no mercy, he decided. A hundred points from each student he found there, regardless of what house they belonged to—two hundred if they decided to give him any lip.

 

They flew over the lake, the water glittering beneath their feet. Sherlock held onto John tighter, not trusting that one of those merpeople wouldn’t leap up out of those murky depths and latch on to him. Sherlock had an unfortunate encounter with one when he was a second year. He had strayed out to the boathouse, the only place on the grounds where he could escape the monotony of his schoolmate’s endless prattle, when a mermaid had emerged out of the water. She let out a soft screech through her broken teeth and wrapped a webbed hand around Sherlock’s ankle and pulled. Sherlock had held onto one of the support beams in the boathouse, but it was no use. She took him under with one sharp tug, dragging him down into the shadowy green waters. In that remote landscape, in that deafening quiet, Sherlock’s mind grew still for the first time. Time slowed, his vision grew dull, and the world around him turned black. It was the most disagreeable felling being deprived of his senses. He didn’t remember being pulled out of the lake, or the group of students that had gathered around the boathouse to watch him—just Hagrid’s vice-like grip on his shoulder and the half-giant’s gruff voice saying, “Lucky he found yer when he did, or you’d be dead, you would.”

 

He had never been more embarrassed. The unaccounted time. Being rescued. Onlookers watching as he lay there helpless. At twelve years old, Sherlock vowed to never feel that way again and so he steered clear of the lake and the merpeople and anything or anyone that would place him at a disadvantage.

 

As John and Sherlock neared land, a cold dread washed over Sherlock, one that turned his heart ice cold. In the horizon, he could see that the warning sparks didn’t come from a group of curfew-breaking students. He saw cloaked figures dipping through the air and weaving around two other figures that were rooted to the ground. Sherlock spotted Lestrade first, he could recognize that shock of grey hair from anywhere, and another figure, most likely Brook judging by the hunched shoulders. The dementors didn’t lunge at the men, but they did hover close, scaling the space just above their heads, the edges of their frayed robes moving in slow waves.

 

Lestrade cast a quick Patronus, his conjured bear pawing two dementors down with one easy stroke, but as soon as his Patronus hit its mark, the dementors rushed Lestrade, making the man crumple to his knees. Brook cast his own Patronus, sending a blue stream towards the creatures, but the magic didn’t take shape and it fizzled out like a wayward firework. Brook also fell, but he shielded Lestrade’s body with his own as he did so.

  
Sherlock held his wand tighter. A cold sweat began to coat his forehead despite the force of the wind whipping his head.

 

He couldn’t cast a Patronus. He couldn’t cast a Patronus and they were heading towards a swarm of dementors.

 

He decided it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t let it matter. He’d cast elemental spells to ward the creatures off. He’d carve a hole in the ground, bury them all in it until the dementors went away. He wouldn’t look weak in front of John. He would do this.

 

Lestrade and Brook were completely covered under the rippling cloaks of the hooded creatures. John brought his wand up and cast his own Patronus. Sherlock leaned back in awe, his grip around John loosening as a burst of blue shot out of John’s wand and took the shape of a large husky. It charged at the dementors, bounding across the sky as if it were a racetrack. The dog barreled into the hooded figures making a number of them spring back. As the dementors moved in their frenzied panic, Sherlock caught a glimpse of Brook’s periwinkle robes peeking through the dark, undulating mass.

 

Sherlock’s feet began to glide through the grass, the tips of his shoes skirting hard soil. The temperature dropped drastically, eating through the warming spell he had cast earlier. A heavy weight settled across his chest, as if the air in lungs had suddenly turned to lead.

 

“Get ready,” yelled John.

 

Sherlock nodded, even though he knew John couldn’t see him. They hit the ground with a jolt, John immediately dropping the broom and breaking out into a run. Sherlock stumbled, his long legs wobbling as they tried to reorient themselves to the ground. He managed not to fall and followed John who had already cast another Patronus that made the dementors momentarily disperse.

 

Sherlock raised his wand above his head and cast Periculum, and hoped some of the staff would hear it. He ran to John’s side, who was struggling to keep the dementors at bay. Sherlock leveled his wand at the creatures and cast Incendio. It didn’t harm the hooded figures, but it did keep them from coming closer, if only for a few seconds.

 

Sherlock threw a quick glance at John, just in time to see the look of confusion break across the man’s face. John recomposed himself quickly and he gave Sherlock a curt nod, jerking his head towards Lestrade and Brook’s still limp bodies. Sherlock rushed towards them, but a dementor swept in front of him. His hands grew cold and when he looked down at them, he was surprised to find that he had dropped his wand. His throat constricted, his muscles turned taut, and as his vision narrowed and a memory of a pale blue potion burning through the soles of his feet broke through his mental defenses, he cast one look back at John who had his feet firmly planted on the ground, wand raised high, Patronus running circles above him, moving higher and higher as it fought off the moving dark.

 

 

#

 

 

Sherlock woke to the sound of his brother’s angered voice, and was grateful that for once it wasn’t directed at him. He kept his eyes shut, trying not to shift in the springy mattress of what was undoubtedly one of the infirmary beds.

 

“Really, Gregory,” said his brother. “Taking on that many dementors on your own. And here I thought you washed your hands of such foolish acts when you left the Ministry.”

 

Sherlock could hear the panic in the pitch of Mycroft’s voice and the uneven pacing of his steps as he walked back and forth around Lestrade’s bed, but if Mycroft deemed Lestrade capable of enduring such a tongue lashing, then the Quidditch instructor was undoubtedly fine.

 

There was a shuffle of feet beside Sherlock’s bed and a slight shift of air as a hand swept just above his head. He felt a tug at his pillow and then hesitant fingers tracing the curls of his hair. _John_ , thought Sherlock, and something deep in his chest warmed. He dug the heels of his feet into the bed’s mattress and its itchy linen. He angled his face to where he guessed John’s face was and opened his eyes.

 

There John was, smiling down at Sherlock, as if he hadn’t just fought off a gang of dementors. As if he hadn’t just witnessed Sherlock’s embarrassment at not being able to cast a spell most seventh years could.

 

“Hi,” said John.

 

Sherlock reached over his head and grasped the hand that John had in his hair. He brought it down to his side and threaded his fingers through the other man’s. “Hi.”

 

There was a question in John’s eyes, but he left it unvoiced for the moment and flexed his fingers around Sherlock’s. His eyes were bright as ever and Sherlock was content to just lie back and stare at the Hufflepuff.

 

“Clearly,” continued Mycroft from beside them, “that Gryffindor thick-headedness has managed to follow you well into your adult life.” He let out a puff of air and came to a halt near the head of Lestrade’s bed, placing his hands on his hips and looking at the other man expectantly.

 

“Are you done?” asked Lestrade.

 

Mycroft said nothing, but the hard set of his jaw indicated that he was far from done. Lestrade sat up in his bed and took Mycroft’s right hand, the man’s wand hand, between both of his. He brought the hand to his lips and pressed a long kiss against Mycroft’s knuckles.

 

“I’m fine,” said Lestrade, his voice calm.

 

Mycroft nodded, though he seemed unconvinced.

 

Sherlock looked away, not wanting to witness yet another of his brother’s and Lestrade’s private moments. He had been graced with enough of them in his youth; it seemed unfair that he couldn’t escape their affectionate displays in his adulthood. He surveyed the room. Brook was lying in the bed across with Anthea perched over him, no doubt inquiring what had happened. Irene was towards the back of the infirmary speaking to Madame Hooper in a hushed voice.

 

Sherlock felt a weight settle next to him on the bed.

 

“Molly said you have to eat this,” said John, waving a bar of chocolate at Sherlock.

 

Sherlock grabbed the offered chocolate and glared at it with disdain. He liked chocolate. Maybe a little bit too much given the few extra pounds he always put on the few weeks leading up to Halloween, but eating it now would be an admission of his weakness—that he was defenseless against dementors. He considered throwing a fit, tossing the bar across the infirmary, but doing so would prompt a hailstorm of nags from the, not one, but two healers in the room.

 

He sighed and took a reluctant bite out of the bar. He felt a brief bite of annoyance as the last dregs of cold quickly dissipated from his body and everything from his stomach down to his toes warmed.

 

John twined a finger around one of Sherlock’s curls. “Better?” he asked.

 

Sherlock nodded warily. He was well aware that the room was filled with people who were annoyingly invested in his involvement with John. Sure enough, Irene was eyeing him, a knowing look on her face. Molly was watching them too, a small frown tugging at the corner of her lips as her eyes tracked the movements of John’s hands through Sherlock’s hair. There would be no more asking of favors from her, thought Sherlock. But she shook off the frown and adopted her usual jittery and cheerful demeanor. She handed an unwrapped bar of chocolate to Lestrade. “You too,” she said.

 

Lestrade attacked the chocolate ravenously, wagging the bar with a now crescent shaped chunk missing from it in front of Mycroft’s face. “None for you, Mr. I-can’t-believe-I don’t-fit-into-those-maroon-robes-anymore.”

 

Mycroft rolled his eyes and let his gaze shift to Sherlock. “And how are you feeling?”

 

“Fine,” said Sherlock. “What happened?”

 

“You fainted,” said Lestrade, a smirk slapped firmly on his face.

 

Sherlock had to keep himself from grinding his teeth. “Apart from the obvious.”

 

Lestrade let out a heavy sigh. “I was on my way back from the Quidditch pitch, when I noticed a dark mass near the lake. I went towards it, realized that they were dementors, and that they were attacking someone. I cast Periculum and went over to help Brook fight them off.”

 

“ _You_ cast Periculum?” asked Sherlock. “Not Brook.”

 

Lestrade nodded. “And then you and John came, and _then_ you fainted.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Mycroft was right; Lestrade could really be a child when he wanted to. He pushed himself out of his bed, despite John’s protests, and walked over to Brook. “Why didn’t you cast Periculum?” asked Sherlock.

 

“I was overwhelmed,” said Brook, looking paler than ever. He had his blankets drawn to his shoulders and was gripping them with trembling fingers. “They caught me off guard. I didn’t—I was just walking. I didn’t know a group of dementors would attack me.”

 

“Yes, but a simple Periculum? What if Lestrade hadn’t walked past? What if those dementors had kissed you?” asked Sherlock, his voice growing louder. “You, a member of this staff, one who’s expected to protect the students of this school, and you couldn’t cast a simple spell that any first year could.”

 

Sherlock hadn’t realized it, but he had moved closer to Brook, towering over him and speaking in a voice that had shifted from condescending to hysterical. Brook’s expression had also changed from one of fear to shock and confusion. There was a hint of pity there too in the furrowing of his brows and the way he avoided Sherlock’s eyes. Receiving that look from that man, that quivering excuse of a man, it made Sherlock see red in a way he hadn’t since Mycroft had tossed his copy of _Beetle the Bard_ into the pond behind their manor.

 

Before he could get his hands on Brook, shake the man until he admitted his incompetency, someone was at his side, pulling him back by the arm. He expected to see John, but it was Irene tugging at him, lightly pushing at the space between his shoulders as she maneuvered him through the aisles of beds and out of the infirmary.

 

The hallway was empty, filled only with only the sounds of Peeves’ snickers bouncing off the walls from somewhere deep within the castle. Irene turned Sherlock around and planted both of her hands on his shoulders.

 

She looked Sherlock straight in the eye and said, “No one blames you for this.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and attempted to break free of Irene’s embrace, but she caught him by the chin, her sharp nails digging into his skin, and forced him to look at her. “No one. Just like no one blames Brook or Lestrade. So you can’t cast a Patronus. Plenty of wizards can’t.”

 

“I think you know me well enough to know that being clumped in with the “plenty” is not a place I strive to be.”

 

“Which is why,” Irene continued, “John is going to teach you how to cast it.” She dropped her hand from Sherlock’s face, but not before giving his cheek a gentle caress. “Merlin knows I tried, but you’re impossible to teach. Truly. Maybe John will have a better chance at it, since he has little trouble retaining your attention.”

 

“John’s going to teach me how to cast a Patronus,” repeated Sherlock. It wasn’t an entirely bad idea, but Sherlock had tried to learn the spell in the past, with and without Irene’s guidance, and he hadn’t been able to conjure even a wisp of the charm.

 

“Anthea and I are to start teaching the spell to all the students in fifth year and above, just as a precaution. Your brother felt it was necessary; apparently there was an even larger group of dementors living it up in Hogsmeade the same time you ran into your greeting party. Mycroft’s sent word to Azkaban, but he’s convinced that if there were dementors missing, he’d know about it.”

 

“What does that mean?” asked Sherlock. “Dementors floating about, unchecked, as they please?”

 

Irene gave a slow, exaggerated shrug, then brought a hand to her hair, patting down fly-away strands that weren’t there. She never had a hair out of place, courtesy of a powerful frizz-taming spell that she had tweaked and perfected during her teen years. “It’ll be a nightmare teaching that spell. I’ll have to rework my entire syllabus for the term, but at least I’ll have the lovely Anthea at my side.”

 

She looked up at Sherlock and smiled. “And you’ll have John at yours.”

 

 

#

 

 

Mycroft made the announcement the following morning, telling the quiet hall of students that a group of dementors were spotted near the castle, and that though it was nothing to worry about, and definitely not something to distract the students from their studies, everyone in year five and above was to learn how to cast a Patronus, simply as a precautionary measure, of course.

 

But the students weren’t nearly as mollified as Mycroft would have liked them to be. They broke into loud whispers the moment he turned from his lectern and headed for his seat. Sherlock watched it all quietly, simply nodding when John placed an imploring hand on his arm and asked if he was all right.

 

They arranged to meet in the evening in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. Before Sherlock made his way to the class, he changed out of his robes into his muggle clothes: a dark pair of trousers and a white cotton v-neck. When he arrived at the classroom, John was already there, sitting atop Irene’s desk kicking his the heels of his feet together. The space was cleared, the students’ tables vanished away and the standing chalkboards pushed to the front of the room.

 

Sherlock strode over to John and stood a foot away from him. “Do I kiss you in greeting?” he asked because this drawn out courtship, this thing that was dangerously teetering towards the closest thing to a relationship Sherlock had ever had was still awkwardly and, at times, frighteningly new to him.

 

John planted his hands on the table and leaned back. “I don’t know. _Do_ you?” He continued to tap his feet together, grinning up at Sherlock as he did so.

 

Sherlock leaned over John, pausing over John’s neck to breathe in the man’s scent. He smelled of grass and soil, no doubt from a trek around the school. Mycroft had John patrolling the areas north and west of the castle. Sherlock also caught the scent of pumpkin. Perhaps John had been working in the patch and decided to bake a pie. He told John all of this in hurried sentences as he buried his nose in John’s hair and inhaled.

 

John giggled. It was an incandescent noise that Sherlock wished he could bottle.

 

“You continually impress, Professor Holmes,” said John.

 

“Well, not tonight,” said Sherlock, pushing back from the table and putting distance between him and John. “I believe you’re the one doling out lessons tonight.”

 

The line of John’s mouth thinned a little. He hopped off the table and rubbed his hands together. “Might as well get started.”

 

He moved behind the table and stooped low to drag out a heavy, dark trunk. He pulled it until it stood six feet away from Sherlock. John sat on the trunk and faced Sherlock. “So, I’m going to guess that someone like you has the wand movements down fairly well.”

 

Sherlock cleared his throat.

 

“Okay. Make that exceedingly well. And you’re obviously powerful enough to cast it, which would mean that the problem lies with the memory you’re using.”

 

“The memory I’ve been using is fine,” snapped Sherlock.

 

“Alright,” said John holding his palms out in front of him. “Then let’s have it. What is it? What’s the memory?”

 

Sherlock thought back on the memory. It was his seventh birthday and his father had gotten him a new cauldron made of copper. It was a small cauldron, about the size of a puffskein, but it was a heavy thing; Sherlock could barely carry it. The cauldron belonged to Gunhilda of Gorsemoor, a great healer and the creator of the cure for dragon pox. Sherlock’s father had sat a seven year-old Sherlock on his lap and together they brewed a Wit-Sharpening potion with the cauldron.

 

It was a great memory. The only problem was that several elements of that memory were too familiar to a darker one that took place several years later. It was a potions experiment that took down the Holmes patriarch and it was a ten-year-old Sherlock that found his father collapsed on the floor, half of his face scorched off and the remnants of the milky-blue potion he was brewing seeping into his clothes. It was Altheda’s potion, the same potion Sherlock was half-heartedly attempting to recreate now at Anthea’s behest. Sherlock remembered his father’s face that day, before the accident. He looked so exhilarated as if he had solved the puzzle of a lifetime and he kneeled in front of Sherlock and said, “I think I have it, son. I think I finally have it. And if I do, you’ll be the first one I teach it to.” He kissed the top of his son’s head and that was the last time Sherlock saw his father alive.

 

As he explained both memories to John, the other man’s brow furrowed deeper and deeper. When Sherlock was done with his telling, John tilted his head to the side and worried his bottom lip with his teeth.

 

Sherlock didn’t want to see that look. Not from John. “Don’t pity me,” he said.

 

“Pity you,” repeated John. He rose up off the trunk and moved towards Sherlock. “How could I possibly pity you? You’re brilliant.” He grabbed hold of Sherlock’s hand and slipped his fingers through Sherlock’s. “I’m just sorry you had to go through that.”

 

John’s words were sincere. His eyes had a slight sheen to them, which made Sherlock look away. For some reason, his hurt amplified under the earnest eyes of one John Watson. It was usually easy to lock those feelings away, push it under a rug while he filled his hours with experiments and pouring over the journals of the great potioneers of the past. But something about John laid those dormant emotions bare and Sherlock _had_ to look away, unless he wanted to break in front of John.

 

He felt the grip around his hand loosen and John’s fingers slipped away. John cleared his throat. “Well, I think it’s time for a new memory then. Something more recent maybe. It might be easier to recall certain details from the memory if it’s still fresh in your mind.”

 

Sherlock thought back on some of his more pleasant days from the past few months. Naturally, they all involved John, but like his memory with the cauldron, they all carried with them a bittersweet taint. For instance, last night in the forest, pressing John against that tree, watching John writhe against it as the shorter man dug his heels into the soil and arched up into Sherlock, that memory was quite pleasant, beyond pleasant, borderline euphoric. But their bliss was cut short and the feel of memory shifted from one of pleasure to dread.

 

The same was true of the afternoon he spent on the Quidditch pitch watching John loop across the sky with ease of a professional player. Sebastian came and ruined that.

 

The only memory that remained unspoiled was the night he and John had spent in the kitchen. How John had perched himself up on a counter and listed all of his favorite foods. How the man had packed away tart after tart, licking each of his fingers clean, thoroughly, languorously. And then the wicked smile on John’s face when he looked up at Sherlock and it was clear that John knew exactly what he was doing, a sly grin on his face as his gaze lingered on Sherlock’s groin and the obvious bulge that was straining against the potion master’s trousers. John had leaned against Sherlock then and buried his head in the crook of Sherlock’s neck, and practically growled the words, “I haven’t been this frustrated since I was a schoolboy.”

 

Sherlock had resolved to put an end to John’s frustration then and there, but Anderson popped in with a loud crack, putting an end to their festivities by threatening to tell Mycroft about what exactly the young Mr. Holmes and the new groundskeeper were doing in _his_ kitchens.

 

Still, even then the mood wasn’t broken as they left the kitchen and John dragged Sherlock to a nearby alcove and parted Sherlock’s mouth with his tongue, let it slide and curl around Sherlock’s, pulling back only to dive back in, sucking at Sherlock’s tongue with his slick, warm lips.

 

That would do, thought Sherlock, letting the memory replay in his head.

 

“I’ve got it,” said Sherlock and he assumed the stance.

 

John didn’t move. He just looked at Sherlock with quiet consideration. “Are you sure?”

 

Sherlock nodded, tightening his grip around his wand.

 

John walked behind the trunk and after a wave of his wand, several locks clicked open and the top of the chest slowly rose. As the gap opened, a dark shadow poured out of chest and moved up, hanging in the air like yards of draped silk. Sherlock immediately felt the cold as it chilled the tip of his nose, his ears, and slowly bled through his clothes and crept into his chest.

 

He forced himself to think of the memory. Of the warmth he felt when he was pressed against John, how he couldn’t stop sweating even after John had said goodnight and Sherlock sat at the sill of his open window and watched the smoke rise from the chimney of John’s hut.

 

But the cold just grew and the smell of seared flesh and tepid water coated his nostrils. When the dementor fanned his arms out, preparing to lunge at him, Sherlock sunk to his knees, his bones hitting the cobblestone hard and his wand clattering to the floor, rattling away in defeat as the darkness closed in around him.

 

 

#

 

 

He woke to John’s face, his head resting against John’s lap as the other man ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair in soothing strokes.

 

“Alright?” asked John.

 

Sherlock nodded weakly. His head felt heavy and he just wanted to bury his face in John’s stomach and sleep. John pulled a chocolate bar out of his pocket and held it out to him, but Sherlock shook his head. He wrapped his arms around John’s torso and mumbled, “Sleep.”

 

John relented. He pulled Sherlock up by the arms and helped walk him to his room. He muttered his password at his door and, desperate for the warmth of his bed and the heat from John’s body, he dragged John across the room, not letting the man take in his surroundings and yanked him on to the bed. He rested his head against John’s shoulder and wrapped an arm around the other man’s stomach. Once he was comfortably settled, he shut his eyes and said, “Stay.”

 

John snorted from above him. He leaned in close and planted a kiss on Sherlock’s temple. “As if I’d miss the chance to hear you snore again.”

 

“I don’t-” said Sherlock, unable to get the rest of the words out of his mouth. He just wanted sleep.

 

John let out a light chuckle. “Of course not.” His breath tickled Sherlock’s scalp and in a sleep-addled haze, Sherlock had enough sense left to pinch the man.

 

John chuckled and pulled Sherlock closer. “Go to sleep, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock wanted to say something to John, but his brain had turned sluggish. What was it that he wanted?

 

“I’ll be here in the morning,” said John, and something in Sherlock’s mind unlocked and he finally gave into the warmth and slept.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! My computer was in and out of the mac depot for a while and then I got distracted by all seven seasons of Supernatural. This chapter is a tad longer, so hopefully that will make up for the wait. Feedback is always appreciated--even if you just drop a line saying you're still reading!


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